The Complete Sherlock Holmes

the portrait were framed it would just cover that
bare space and correspond with Gordon’s picture
over there.”
“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.
“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But
now your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you
looked hard across as if you were studying the
character in his features. Then your eyes ceased
to pucker, but you continued to look across, and
your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the
incidents of Beecher’s career. I was well aware that
you could not do this without thinking of the mission
which he undertook on behalf of the North
at the time of the Civil War, for I remember you
expressing your passionate indignation at the way
in which he was received by the more turbulent
of our people. You felt so strongly about it that
I knew you could not think of Beecher without
thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw
your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected
that your mind had now turned to the Civil
War, and when I observed that your lips set, your
eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was positive
that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry
which was shown by both sides in that desperate
struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder;
you shook your head. You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and
a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me
that the ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your
mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous, and was glad to find that all my deductions
had been correct.”
“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have
explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as before.”
“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you. I should not have intruded it upon your
attention had you not shown some incredulity the
other day. But the evening has brought a breeze
with it. What do you say to a ramble through London?”
I was weary of our little sitting-room and
gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled
about together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope
of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet
Street and the Strand. His characteristic talk, with
its keen observance of detail and subtle power of
inference held me amused and enthralled. It was
ten o’clock before we reached Baker Street again.
A brougham was waiting at our door.
The Resident Patient
364
“Hum! A doctor’s—general practitioner, I perceive,”
said Holmes. “Not been long in practice,
but has had a good deal to do. Come to consult
us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s
methods to be able to follow his reasoning, and to
see that the nature and state of the various medical
instruments in the wicker basket which hung
in the lamplight inside the brougham had given
him the data for his swift deduction. The light in
our window above showed that this late visit was
indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as
to what could have sent a brother medico to us at
such an hour, I followed Holmes into our sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers
rose up from a chair by the fire as we entered. His
age may not have been more than three or four and
thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy
hue told of a life which has sapped his strength
and robbed him of his youth. His manner was
nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman,
and the thin white hand which he laid on the
mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather
than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre—a
black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch
of color about his necktie.
“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily.
“I am glad to see that you have only been waiting
a very few minutes.”
“You spoke to my coachman, then?”
“No, it was the candle on the side-table that
told me. Pray resume your seat and let me know
how I can serve you.”
“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our
visitor, “and I live at 403 Brook Street.”
“Are you not the author of a monograph upon
obscure nervous lesions?” I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing
that his work was known to me.
“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it
was quite dead,” said he. “My publishers gave me
a most discouraging account of its sale. You are
yourself, I presume, a medical man?”
“A retired army surgeon.”
“My own hobby has always been nervous disease.
I should wish to make it an absolute specialty,
but, of course, a man must take what he can
get at first. This, however, is beside the question,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how
valuable your time is. The fact is that a very singular
train of events has occurred recently at my
house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to
such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for